by Nicole Dere
As if reading her mind he suddenly quaffed the rest of his drink and leaned forward decisively. ‘OK, Jill, no sense in putting this off any longer, is there? We’re supposed to be gagging for each other. Let’s get the show on the road.’
Her brown eyes looked wild, trapped. ‘I don’t, I mean, I can’t... you know. Do it for real.’ The crimson swept up warmly and her gaze lowered. His hand was warm, steady over hers, but felt like the grip of a jailer as he stood and drew her up after him.
‘We’ll worry about that when we get there,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Drive slow, eh, so I can follow you? I don’t want to get lost on the way. And remember, Christ knows who’ll be watching when we get to Gresham Street, or how.’
Jill gave a tiny whimper of dismay as his arms enfolded her in an intimate hug almost as soon as they had entered the silent house. ‘Come on, love.’ His breath was warm as he whispered in her ear. ‘Hot and steamy, all the way. You haven’t sussed the place for cameras, have you? Apart from the webcam upstairs? They could have them all over the place.’
Manfully she strained against him, her arms vice-like around his neck, and took her turn at nibbling at his ear. ‘I haven’t searched myself. But I’m sure there aren’t. I asked Liz, and she told me there aren’t any.’
He swung her round and pushed her forcefully against the wall of the dim, narrow passage. His lips were nuzzling her neck now, just below her cute little earlobe. ‘You believe her? You think she trusts you?’
‘We’re very... close,’ she whispered back, pressing her lips in simulated enthusiasm against his burrowing face.
‘I know; I’ve seen the movie.’ She felt the suppressed shiver of his snigger before he released her, and she experienced that sudden rush of disliking, the sickening feeling deep in her tummy that classified him with Chopper Harris and Wills, and all the other males she had come into contact with since she’d become embroiled in this nightmare. His hand clamped possessively about her waist and she placed her own over it, dutifully holding him to her as she led him from the dimness into the bright daylight of the small back room.
‘We’ve got the whole place to ourselves,’ she announced with bubbly, theatrical vigour. And that was just what she felt like, she acknowledged; an uncertain am-dram actress hamming it up on stage at the local village hall. Her voice seemed to ring excessively loud in her own ears. ‘Why don’t you make yourself comfy while I make us a nice cup of coffee?’
But he grabbed her even before she could take the two steps necessary to get her back to the door, and pulled her down onto the couch on top of him. ‘The coffee can wait, but I can’t,’ he drooled. ‘I’ve missed you, Jill, and I can’t tell you how much I’ve been longing for this.’
His hands were everywhere, thrusting under the light summer dress, roaming over her bare legs, her buttocks and the lace-fringed silk of the French knickers she wore beneath, exposing their transparency to view. Fortunately his ardent kiss sealed her mouth and trapped the involuntary little scream in her throat. ‘Make it good for fuck’s sake,’ he breathed indistinctly, his lips pressed against her smooth cheek.
‘Not here,’ she panted convincingly. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’ Now it was she who seized his hand, led him back out into the narrow corridor and towards the staircase. Halfway up she paused, pretending to stumble, and pulled him down once more in an ungainly sprawl. ‘I can’t do it,’ she gasped into his mouth as she kissed him, laying awkwardly, the front edge of a stair digging into her kidney as she held him tightly on top of her. ‘I’m sorry, but I just can’t. Not the whole thing... you know... all the way.’
He kissed her hard in return, his rising passion genuine and his hands scrabbling under the dress again, fingers digging hungrily into her thighs. ‘Let’s hope there isn’t a camera on the stairs,’ he mumbled. ‘They warned me about you. Told me you might be difficult. But you’ll go as far as you have to, Constable. And that’s a fucking order. This is not going to go tits up just because you’re fucking frigid. So dike or no dike, get up there and make like you’re gagging for it, right?’
His hand had reached right up inside the dishevelled dress and she felt it nudge her silk-covered sex, a finger pressing between the traitorously moistening lips. He then scooped her up and carried her bodily the last few steps onto the landing. ‘Where do we go?’ he panted.
Dizzily she remembered Liz’s husky tones and her petulant pout. ‘Don’t let him fuck you in our bed, baby. Use the studio instead.’ That was the pet name for the front bedroom with all the equipment in it. Still tingling with the aftershock of his warning, Jill pointed dumbly with a foot and he bore her through the door and fell with her onto the vast white bed and the pile of exotic cushions.
She made no effort to resist. She hardly felt capable of making any coordinated movement on her own, and flopped like a ragdoll as he drew her up and unzipped the cotton dress and dragged it impatiently up and over her head. Underneath she wore only the knickers and a camisole of dark chiffon. The pleated bust had a satin trim, through which her breasts showed in teasing mistiness. Her arms folded in feeble protest for an instant, which might well have been identified by any covert observer as a coy pretence designed merely to enflame his ardour, for the move did not delay at all the sweeping removal of the flimsy little garment. She lolled back weakly against the cushions, allowing him an unimpeded view of her entrancing breasts.
Her sole remaining garment, the delicate knickers, were also virtually transparent with a fancy picot edging to the waistband and the legs. As his hard fingers dug into the elastic to slide them down over her hips he leaned over until he was lying on top of her. She could feel the rub of his shirt on her nipples, which were erect and shamefully sensitive to his touch. His red face was on hers, his lips kissing possessively then moving slightly for his hoarse whisper in her ear. ‘I’m not going to force you, but we have to look as if we’re really fucking each other, and loving every second of it.’
Her arms went around his back, pulling him even closer, hidden under his smothering bulk. She thrust herself up against him in feigned passion, returning his fierce embrace. ‘I really can’t,’ she desperately whispered back, her cheeks blushing with the embarrassment of her admission. ‘I-I’ve never done it with a man. Never...’
She felt him tense for a second, his body rigid on hers, and heard his muffled gasp. She was flayed with shame as she realised he was struggling to believe what he had just heard. ‘Oh shit,’ he cursed, his voice almost rising to dangerous levels. ‘I don’t fucking believe it. A virgin on a job like this? Shit!’
She was choked too, by her chagrin and by the onset of tears. ‘No, I didn’t... I mean...I think I’m a lesbian.’
His hands had slid inside her knickers. She felt those thick fingers brushing intimately over her hips and thighs as he worked the silk down, free of her sex and buttocks to leave them clinging in a restricting band just above her knees, while his hands moved up once more to seize her flushed face as he kissed her again. ‘For fuck’s sake, Jill,’ he murmured urgently into her mouth, ‘it’s too late and too dangerous for both of us to back out now. You’ve got no choice. We’ve got to make this look good, and I can’t wait any longer!’ He grabbed her wrist painfully and dragged it down to the bulge of his cock, straining against the thin material of his summer slacks.
In spite of her panic she found herself obeying him as he eased his hips away from her slightly, and she struggled with the zip of his fly and the unfamiliar process of releasing a throbbing penis from its restrictive concealment. She shuddered and gave a small whimper at the novel sensation of the uncoiling thickness, the fierce animal thrust of hot flesh, slick already with a little glistening emission as it pulsed in her tentative fingers.
He buried his face in her silky hair as though whispering more sweet-nothings to her. ‘Never mind the lesbian, I hope you’re a bloody good thespian, darling, cos I bet you t
wo months’ salary they’ve got at least one camera trained on us somewhere in this room.’
He gave a groan of lust and drove himself down onto her, and for the first time Jill felt the hungry touch of a rampant penis on her most intimate flesh, but he did not penetrate her. Instead the muscled column and the lolling scrotum beneath it pressed at the conflux of her closed thighs and belly, and in an ecstatic flash of fear and delight she felt all his male strength in the mighty spasm of his prick against her, then the surging flood of his discharge, thick, potent, pungent, over her pubic mound and the softness of her tummy, the viscous seed already cooling as it spread up to the shallow recess of her navel.
‘Oh shit, Jilly,’ he grunted, ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait any longer. If you knew how much I’ve been longing for you!’
Jill was too shocked and dazed to appreciate the brilliant authenticity of this virtuoso performance, if performance it was. She could feel him lying on top of her, his weight bearing her down into the mattress, and feel the sticky, copious fluid which sealed their conjoined bodies, her nostrils full of that distinctive odour, and feel the shaking of his frame in this convincing display of shame and embarrassment. In spite of her shock and confusion she found her arms tightening around him instinctively, to hold and comfort, thinking as she did so that by this messy and premature climax he had avoided forcing her to have sex with him. But even more shocking and mind-bending was her recognition of her own arousal and her inability to decipher just how she felt about this surprisingly frustrating non-conclusion.
She had no time to gather her whirling thoughts though, because even as his come was drying on her skin he lifted himself free of her and with one swift tug pulled off the knickers clinging in that dark band around her knees. He seized the backs of her calves and hauled her down the bed, spreading her limbs wide as he did so, and she lay splayed nakedly before him. ‘But let me make it right for you,’ he gabbled earnestly, and she gave a little cry as his searching face buried between her spread thighs and drove against her wet sex and the soft curls of her pubis. His tongue was lapping, reaming the fleshy lips, seeking out that beating little bud of her clitoris, aided by probing fingers that peeled back the gleaming, fleshy tissue with which nature protected it.
Everything fled from her reeling consciousness, except that insatiable appetite, that thrilling onrush she was familiar with at the skilful attentions of other lovers, but which she had never experienced at the hands and tongue of a man, and which brought her to that burst of a delicious orgasm as shattering and consuming as any she had known.
Somehow she was not shocked when, waking from her drifting half-dream some minutes later, she found he was naked, lying cradling her in his arms. The dreamlike sensation continued as he helped her up from the bed and led her to the small bathroom. She glowed with an inner warmth as she watched him turn on the bath taps, and added fragrant lotions to the flowing water until it carried a thick cream of bubbles. She could not keep her eyes from his resting penis, quite unthreatening now as it hung limply, shrouded in the thick collar of his foreskin. She stared, fascinated. He came close and put his hand tenderly on her shoulder. He leaned in and nuzzled at her temple, making the most of the noise of the flowing water to whisper, ‘You’re doing great, Jill. I’m certain there was a camera linked up somewhere in the bedroom, but you did just fine.’
She reached up to encircle his shoulders with her arms and to keep him close as she returned his kiss. ‘The computer wasn’t on,’ she said. ‘The camera wasn’t activated.’
‘It could have been linked up to another PC somewhere. I can’t believe they wouldn’t have this place rigged.’ He held her naked body against his. She was trembling, but it was not through cold. The fear, if it was there, was her fear of the unknown, and was part of the quickening beat of the excitement which sent the blood racing through her veins. She took his hand and they stepped into the fragrant, foaming water, sat and faced each other, their limbs intimately entangled in the bath as they cuddled each other.
She saw the glinting head of his prick peep out of the glistening, shifting bubbles. The helm looked huge, like a purple mushroom. A hand closed around her neck, pulling her face close to his so that she had to bend forward, her knees raised higher out of the water. ‘Don’t be scared of it,’ he said enigmatically. ‘We’ve got to go through with it, Jill. There’s no other way, is there?’
She was trembling and her heart fluttered. It was as though all her strength were draining from her, flowing into the warm caress of the water, and the feel of his strong limbs enclosing her, trapping her. She was utterly helpless, as totally in his power as she had been under Jackie’s dominion from the first day she had met her. Though she could feel the tears welling close to the surface at her powerlessness, she was aware also of that fatal, insidious attraction, a recognition that her weakness was part of the excitement possessing her.
She was his. As far as she was concerned, they were lovers already. He had made love to her with his mouth and his fingers, and her orgasm had been as consuming as any she had known with Jackie - or with Sharon before her.
She was incapable of resistance, her limbs nerveless as whispering encouragement he took her hands and placed them on that tall column of muscle whose dome now bobbed and reared majestically above the water. He took a bar of perfumed soap and, with his hands on hers and both pairs massaging that throbbing shaft of his penis, and the hidden softness of the balls beneath, he covered them with the rich creaminess and his cock stood up rock-hard.
‘Come on, Jill,’ he urged, his cheek, hot and shining, rubbing against hers. ‘Come on.’ His hands clutched her elbows, pulling her to him. She felt his feet sliding under her buttocks, curling strongly upward, his toes digging into her cheeks to assist her movement onto his waiting thighs. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he whispered when their open mouths came together. ‘I’ll be gentle.’
His hands were under her thighs, kneading the tender flesh as he spread them wide, folding her to fit over his lap and his rearing weapon. He held her tightly by the hips and somehow she managed to slide her legs into the narrow space either side of him, and she felt, for the first time in her twenty-two years, the tip of a penis nuzzling into her, and then... yes! And she cried, with an unbearably eager excitement as the potent length of the shaft rose into her, up into the clinging narrowness of her sheath, and moved like an oiled piston to meld both discomfort and utter pleasure into a consuming union.
Inside an anonymous white van parked at the junction of Gresham Street and Court Road, less than twenty yards from the neat, newly painted house with the blue door, the stuffy air was fetid and acrid with the charged, heavy breathing of the two occupants concealed in its darkened rear. Only whispered, drawn out expletives, like fervent prayer, could express their emotion as Willy and Chopper crouched and gazed riveted at the bird’s-eye view on the screen of the undulating bodies, the patterns of their soldered flesh as they heaved and writhed and splashed on their plunging ride to fulfilment.
Chapter Ten
Andrea Wise winced at the resounding crash of the door and the tremble of the coffee cups in the wake of Bob Tidy’s departure. The air seemed to shimmer visibly in the room. She listened to the clatter of his feet down the stairs, and the slightly fainter crash as he slammed the front door on leaving the building. She lay back listlessly on the settee, and let the tears start again from her puffed and reddened eyes. The ache of her tender buttocks reasserted itself and she stiffened and groaned softly, moved to ease the discomfort, drawing up her bare feet, raising her knees to lie cramped along the restricted length of the two-seater.
Bob Tidy was on the cars, speeding up and down the motorways usually, taking coffee breaks in the Services and the greasy spoons, or dozing out the dregs of a shift in some deserted lay-by. He had been her boyfriend for five months. She would miss him. He had been good fun and the sex was good, most of the time, but that was
really all there had ever been to it. She was glad now that she had never taken up his occasional suggestions that they should move in together. This parting would have been so much messier, and she had made it clear from the beginning that she was not looking to form any seriously long-term relationship. She might appear happy-go-lucky sometimes, but she was deadly serious about her career in the police force. A fiercely emotional attachment was the last thing she wanted at this stage. She was sorry that her association with Bob had ended in such a blazing row, but she knew that the tears that assailed her now were largely for herself and her own private predicament, and that losing Bob was certainly not the major problem occupying her gloomy thoughts.
It was, however, fierce emotion which had turned her life upside down three days ago, and doubly ironic that it should involve both her overriding ambition to succeed in her career and the whole basis of her sexual makeup. She had known, or at least part of her had known, from the very first moment when she had chosen to accept DI Barlow’s deviant lifeline to escape official reprimand, just how murky the waters would be that she was getting herself into. ‘I’m not gay, Ma’am,’ she had reiterated, twice if not thrice, like some latter day Simon Peter, and now the distraught girl was forced to recognise the fact that her denial was equally perfidious. In that sunlit suburban bedroom to which Jackie Barlow had carried her like a babe in arms, all her previous certainties had been stripped way with the rest of her clothing until even the throbbing of her flayed backside had been superseded by the fiery baptism of sex the older woman had consumed her with.
The stigmata of her downfall were all too vividly with her still, in the mass of multihued bruises covering her bottom. She had spent many tearful minutes staring at the evidence in her mirror, her upper body twisted, to observe the change of the glowing red welts to the dark purples and smoky paler tones of the bruises which emerged after the initial fiery pain had died. It was her anxiety to prevent Bob from seeing her abused bum, and the sensitivity of her strained nerves, which had sparked off the quarrel that led to the final explosion and the break up.